


look into your eyes and the sky's the limit

by atleasttheweathersnice



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander WashingSon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, F/M, George WashingDad, Present Tense, clichéd first meetings, tags to be added probably, technically infidelity, vague descriptions of dissociation, what is this historical accuracy of which you speak?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 13:40:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6241480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atleasttheweathersnice/pseuds/atleasttheweathersnice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George's relationship with Rachel is relentless, intense and sometimes exasperating. </p>
<p>So is the unexpected product of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	look into your eyes and the sky's the limit

He knows from the first moment he lay eyes on the boy. That’s what he wants to tell the world, anyway: look at this boy, how could he be anyone but mine? But it’s not quite true. He’s known from the first time he saw Hamilton that there was _something_ about the young man, something beyond the stunning intellect that drew George to him. A fleeting familiarity whose origin was just beyond reach.

It’s not until he learns where Hamilton is from, Nevis in the West Indies, that the pieces start to fall into something like a pattern.

“What’s your mother’s name?” he asks. Hamilton reacts with his usual prickliness, hyperaware of any slight to his honor and good name, real or, as is often the case, imagined. He straightens, juts out his chin in an entirely futile attempt to look taller.

“Faucette,” he says, “Rachel Faucette.”

George closes his eyes and releases a slow breath. He should have known immediately. But, he comforts himself, he has an excuse. Hamilton is like his mother in many ways: the unrelenting intensity, the brilliance, the never-ceasing breakneck pace. What George has never associated with him, though, is the sensuality that was always part of his relationship with Rachel. Others might see that in the boy – the gossip that sometimes reaches him has Hamilton as more than popular with the women – but George is twice his age, his commander and a man. Now, with the suspicion – conviction – that Hamilton is his _son_ , any thought of sensuality in the young man is… unsettling.

And without that element of attraction and never quite abating passion, the similarities are harder to see.

“Sir?” Hamilton prompts after the silence has gone on too long for his tastes – if George had raised him, he would be able to handle more than a few moments of silence without starting to fidget – and George forces his focus back to the boy.

He sighs again, raises a hand to rub his forehead.

“Alexander,” he says, “Sit down.”

* * *

Part of the reason he falls so hard, so fast, so _thoroughly_ for Rachel, George thinks, is the unfamiliar feeling of being lost that plagues him his first few weeks in Nevis. It’s not just the alienness of the place, the strange smells, people and even sounds, though those are, at first, overwhelming.

It’s much more than that.

Even before he left for Nevis, back home in Virginia, he felt adrift, like he was trying to move along with a dance but was half a step, half a beat off. What had used to be soothing in its familiarity – the trees, the fields, even the furniture – now seemed to mock him by not quite fitting into their slots in his mind. It was why he had decided on the West Indies, once he had, after much deliberation, listened to his family’s and friends’ advice and decided to travel somewhere in an attempt to _take his mind off things_. Off battle.

He had thought that perhaps external unfamiliarity would cure him of this odd feeling of internal unfamiliarity. If there was nothing that should evoke comforting feelings of belonging, he would not need to be constantly disappointed when they didn’t.

But the feeling doesn’t disappear when he steps ashore. Everything is new and strange, and he has no idea where anything is, where to eat or even where to sleep (perhaps he should have planned ahead for that). There’s chattering in strange languages all around him, the balmy weather is not at all like the Virginian summers and everywhere there’s new sights, new sounds, new impressions leaping at him.

But he still knows, somehow, that the way everything feels, the way the world is pressing against him, isn’t how it _should_ be. It’s like some divinity has reached down, plucked him out of existence and then put him back, but slightly out of place.

It’s not a feeling George likes. And more than that, it’s a feeling he _shouldn’t be having_ and that knowledge gnaws constantly at him, making everything sharper and more invasive.

So when he walks into the small shop, looking for some food to bring back to his quite frankly less than satisfactory lodgings, and sees one of the most beautiful women he has ever seen, it hits him with more force than it would have normally.

She’s speaking to a customer when he enters.

“I understand your grievance, Sir,” she is saying, though by the tone of her voice it seems obvious that she might understand the complaint, but she does not think very highly of it, “but much as it pains me, I cannot control the market prices.”

“I understand that,” the man says, “but surely you must see that it’s only fair for you to offer me the same price as before.”

“You do not seem to grasp how businesses works, Sir,” the woman says, before she adds acidly, “At least not successful businesses.”

The man bristles, pulls himself up stiffly. “Madame, I will not accept such words from a woman like yourself. Curb your tongue!”

Even as he walks up to the counter, George knows that what he’s about to do is a bad idea. He can read social station with a glance, and this man comes from money. He cannot simply rebuke the fellow and expect him to go about his way: sharp words could be cause for a challenge. And you don’t fight duels about harsh words spoken to a shop keep’s wife, or worse yet, assistant.

“Sir,” he says anyway, somewhere in the back of his mind berating himself for having turned into the kind of young man who would do anything for a pretty smile and a pair of beautiful eyes, “I must tell you, you’re being discourteous.”

The man spins around, confrontation obvious in his entire bearing. But when he sees George, he pre-emptively backs down, his posture losing its stiffness and the face set in a scowl prepared to shoot back harsh words smoothing out. His size is at times, George reflects, useful.

“You are right, of course, Sir,” the man says, in a very dislikeable voice, “Even the most unfortunate souls deserve civility. I let my temper get the better of me. I hope _Mrs. Lavien_ will forgive me.”

The apology is only barely addressed to the woman: the man throws a glance at her as he speaks, but he is still turned toward George. For a moment, George toys with the idea of pressing the issue – the woman has obviously noticed the thinly veiled insults, the condescending dismissal and whatever meaning the heavy emphasis on her name was supposed to carry and looks half ready to leap at her customer – but before he has to make a decision, the man sketches out a perfunctory bow and hurriedly leaves the shop.

“Such chivalry.”

The woman is watching George with a small smile as he turns around and her tone is teasing. George half thinks that he should take offense at that, but the way amusement lights up her eyes makes him not care all that much.

“Mrs. Lavien,” he says and bows.

“Ms. Faucette,” she says, “It’s Faucette. Rachel Faucette.”

“Then…” George trails off, not sure how to formulate the question and instead gestures toward the door, where the rude customer left.

“I _was_ married to a Mr. Lavien,” Rachel says. She pauses, as if she’s hesitating. “I left him.”

“Oh,” George says, any semblance of eloquence having left him. Women don’t leave their husbands. At least not the kind of women that you meet in shops rather than on street corners.

“He bored me,” Rachel continues.

“Oh,” George says again.

Rachel laughs – a clear, sparkling laugh that rings through the shop unaffected by its dinginess– and George once again can’t decide if he’s offended or not. He should be, he thinks – being laughed at is not something he is used to tolerating – but the woman’s laugh is intoxicating. It’s a laugh George can see himself do anything to hear.

“Of course,” she says, “he was not as handsome as you.”

Even as he silently curses himself for it, George can feel his cheeks heating up. Are all women this forward here? Somehow, he doubts it. It’s just _this_ woman, this beautiful, alluring woman with eyes a man might go to war for. And if she can be forward, George thinks, so can he.

“I came in search of supper,” he says, “But I’ve been led to understand it’s expensive, and I dislike spending money on myself. Perhaps you might join me?”

Rachel’s smile widens and she tips her head. “I would be delighted.”

**Author's Note:**

> if you haven't already read it you should check out herowndeliverance's [ you outshine the morning sun](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5492954/chapters/12690137) which played a big part in the inspiration for this


End file.
